


Services Rendered

by AnnaBolena



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 19th Century French Politics Rants, Also 19th Century French Kisses, Canon Divergence: June Rebellion, Canon Era, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Poverty, Trans Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 07:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17260208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: The King has, though Grantaire is certain he does not know it, muzzled Enjolras, for the time being. For Enjolras’ fury is most infectious to those that are most wretched – Grantaire counts himself among them though he is careful to cure potential infections with copious spirits and opioids if a flicker of hope should ever catch him – and now that the people have been given an inch they no longer demand a mile all for themselves. Grantaire understands. Apollo, god that he is, does not.The god sets to writing speeches, the god whispers in ears to convince them to fight for more.And so, quietly, the toad takes this task of honoring the fallen upon himself. It is a meager one by comparison, but meager suits him well enough.a.k.a. Grantaire and Enjolras after The June Rebellion doesn't fail.





	Services Rendered

**Author's Note:**

> A small note on how this came to be: I re-read the Brick a few months ago and then the Trailer for Andrew Davies' stuff dropped and Enjolras...had a mustache. It annoyed me, and at first I thought it was just because his face is so often described as feminine (the whole: is a 22yr old man, Looks more like a 17 yr old Girl line, right?) and this representation was needlessly not book-compliant. Then I figured out why this irks me still: unless Enjolras is wearing a fake 'stache ahead of his time, this makes it much harder to Interpret him as trans in the BBC series, whereas the book definitely can be read like that. And...this is 1832, gents, right in what some would call the Biedermeier Period...the staches aren't that hip anymore, you don't get many young men with bushy hairs proudly jutting from their upper lips in this era...sideburns are a different matter, those go hard in the 30s. So why would Davies put that in there????
> 
> And so, I decided I would write a 'What if the June Rebellion hadn't failed' Canon Divergence piece with trans Enjolras, as-the-bricc-would-allow-style. This is entirely from Grantaire's POV though. If you are a trans man and something about this reads wrong to you, please do let me know.

**Services rendered**

It begins, as do most of the tragically ironic twists life has been wont to drown him in, in the Corinthe. At first, one might think that perhaps, if Grantaire had only ever elected to eat there, the alimentation might have done him in quicker than fate could have hoped to manage, but the now slightly smudged warning chalk message which encourages revelry but discourages eating had been one Grantaire took to heart. And thus, instead, life, fate, etcetera had continued her assault relentlessly.

(Going there to drink one night, years ago, staying past the usual point of no return to talk with Feuilly, a new connection made amidst flowing liquor, joining Feuilly for one of his social justice meetings a week later, on the second floor, and falling painfully hard for a being that, in his haze, he had regarded as divine. Sober reevaluation had not convinced him to recant.)

(Awakening from drunken stupor, trying to give the final minutes of his wretched life a semblance of meaning, his life for gentle Prouvaire to keep drawing breath, only for what could have only been divine intervention to give him many more minutes to waste away.)

(Returning there in the aftermath, unable to stay away when confronted with renewed fervor in the wake of tragedy. “At five in the morning, we will all be dead,” they had said. They had been wrong. Not purposefully, for doubtless they had certainly intended to perish, but wrong nonetheless.)

Three months in the past is a revolution he had considered doomed from the start, thus now two among their ranks hold a place in the parliament hastily called into existence by a cowed king. A monarchy still, Enjolras’ beloved France, but now it is a France with a constitution pending approval and hope seeping into the hearts of those who desperately need it. Not Grantaire. Grantaire watches their leader privately rail for the need for a republic, for more, and Grantaire wonders if perhaps praying to the god that must have spared his Apollo that fateful day would ensure him being spared a second time, should his fervor not be suitably cooled by the taxing demands of aiding Feuilly with his parliamentary work. The last thing Grantaire should like to rely on these days is hope. He cannot be moved from the fear which grips him – the fear that hope is fickle and inevitably leads to a downfall one cannot anticipate. Hope is blinding, and Grantaire will not be blinded, even if the light their leader emanates through his presence does its very best to emulate that same light of hope his lips would reveal to the world.

(“It is a shame,” Joly had sighed, “That our esteemed leader is too young to earn a place on these lists. But I suppose these two will have to do.” He had next winked at Bossuet, who had gone on to smile and assure Joly that words were the singular thing he was not prone to misfortune in.)

“Will I do?”

Said leader currently stands in front of him, his arms crossed and looking for all the world like he is expecting an answer to the utterly nonsensical question he just posed. Enjolras is devastatingly beautiful, the beauty all-encompassing despite the disheveled state of both hair and attire. It is almost painful to behold him and find oneself the target observed by him in turn, when one is simply not worthy of his attention. Grantaire feels an ache in his chest that has become a long-term companion since he stumbled up the stairs after Feuilly that fateful night.

(“And who have you brought, sweet Feuilly?” Courfeyrac had laughed, and offered Grantaire his hand.

Feuilly had looked to Grantaire, conflicted.

“This is Grantaire, a friend,” he had finally said. Following weeks had rendered the statement true, retroactively.)

“Will you…will you do?” Grantaire repeats the words back at the god come down from Olympus or some worthier place still to confront him, confused.

“Well?” Enjolras raises a blond brow at him, visibly annoyed that Grantaire, for once, cannot track the direction he seems to head towards. He is famed amongst their ranks for his ability to keep up with their Apollo even while Apollo’s speeches grow ever-convoluted, angry and dissatisfied by the development of the change he wishes to bring about. He is renowned in matching Enjolras’ passion with a unique blend of melancholy and senseless pontification.

(“Grantaire, I would have a word,” Enjolras had called out into the general room as Grantaire had been on the way down the stairs, not looking up from whatever papers he had been sorting through, issuing a demand, not posing a question. He had shrugged apologetically at those expecting company for drinks and stayed. “Go on,” Grantaire had motioned at Joly, “I expect his diatribe to take a while.”)

“You have me at a disadvantage, Apollo. I am not sure what you are asking my opinion for, but logic dictates that the only possible answer is yes. I cannot fathom what you would attempt that you would not be suited for-”

“You seek to mock me?”

“Surely not,” Grantaire blinks rapidly.

“It is not so uncommon that I would not expect it.”

“I would give you my word, Apollo, though I imagine that should also leave you wanting proper assurance that I merely voice confusion instead of seeking to amuse myself, as you place but little stake in any oath I might make. I have had much amusement this night by way of pleasant company. It is quite enough for now.”

Enjolras considers him a while longer, then speaks.

“I overheard you and Courfeyrac speaking not two weeks ago, and though the conversation was not intended to be overheard, by myself or any other person, it concerned me greatly.” Enjolras evens out the stack of papers in his hands on the table, the edges slide together into a uniform block.

“I have long made a habit of talking to friends.” Grantaire licks his lips, nervously. “Why is my conversation with Courfeyrac suddenly of interest to you?”

“You said you had been distracted in recent months,” Enjolras elaborates, though he looks displeased to have to do so. But what else is new in their dynamic? If Enjolras is not glaring at him the world is not entirely on its proper course. Galileo would scoff at the laws of the universe Grantaire accords acclaim, would laugh to hear a man thrust such value upon another, yet Grantaire imagines the man of Galilei would be converted to this peculiar set of beliefs, should he but look upon Enjolras a moment. Enjolras is a sun of his own, Grantaire ever in his orbit. “And when Courfeyrac offered you a solution you elected to agree. It appears to me you have not undertaken to follow his well-meant advice, for you remain lamentably distracted, as ever.”

(“The pleasures of the flesh, my friend, one night of partaking in a warm body and most distractions evaporate, I say,” Courfeyrac had laughed and clapped him on the back good-naturedly, “There is no better way to sharpen a mind. I would gladly volunteer my own body, only I am presently engaged, you see?”)

That cannot be what Enjolras is getting at. It is impossible.

“I take it I am correct? You have not sought to follow his advice?”

Grantaire shakes his head, though how he manages that is a mystery to him.

“Hence my asking,” Enjolras reiterates, crossing his arms, chin jutted forward proudly as though the golden god worries about passing inspection.

“If you will…do?” Grantaire presses the words out though his throat feels dry beyond hope.

“Yes.”

“What would possess you to make such an offer? That is – if you are offering. No, but you cannot have been. Forgive me, I presume too much. I ought better head home. I have taken too much of my drink this night, as Joly would not take a third cup I drank nearly the whole of it, it has gotten ahold of me as it so often does, surely-”

“I should prefer to see everyone in full capacity as we struggle to build strength that may weather the storms of the coming months, even you,” Enjolras announces, a picture of determination. “You have shown your truthful and honest allegiance to this cause, Grantaire. Despite your words of cynicism and your constant mockery of the future we fight for, you demonstrated determination to die in my place when I thought to exchange myself for Prouvaire...you gave meaning to what I considered certain to be final moments… a reason to carry on…”

Enjolras stops himself, regains some of his previous stiffness, and continues.

“If it will help I should be glad to,” he claims with no small amount of ambiguity, though the meaning grows clearer to Grantaire. There is nothing Enjolras would not do for the cause. So it has always been.

Grantaire supposes Enjolras might even face the gallows with rigid determination if he thought them a worthy death. But how could Grantaire ever be worthy?

“I ask again, Grantaire. Will I do?”

Vapors, surely. It is not so uncommon that Grantaire has never imagined it before, though that feels uncouth and brutish to admit. Enjolras was made to be revered, not besmirched thus. But if these vapors are merely that, well -

It feels like being underwater, like forcing a man into the Seine. In the winter months, it has been known to happen that a foolish youth dares too far only to break through the ice.

The short plunge underwater is not the deadliest part, you see. Grantaire knows this. He pulled a sibling of his own out of icy water in younger years. It is what comes after – the cold that attaches itself to feed off of your bones and flesh until there is nothing left to warm, _that_ is what kills.

(And yet, every year without fail a new story of a youth on the ice reaches him.)

What is this vision before him then? Is it but a crack in the ice or its aftermath?

Grantaire does not hear the affirmation he breathes out, but he must have given signal enough, for Enjolras determinedly pushes him against the nearest wall and sinks to his knees. His breeches come undone quickly, and though Enjolras seems a stranger to the task he rises to the occasion through sheer force of will.

(“It is simple enough,” Courfeyrac had been ready to explain the matter to Marius, when once Grantaire had taken dinner with them. Before Marius had ever thought to attempt a political debate, before barricades had risen and lives had been forfeited. Now they have not seen Pontmercy since the boy took wounds with them. “Your lover might employ a hand, or your lover might kiss you there, and that is a sweeter pleasure still, for it is more certainly warm where a hand may be cold, wet where a hand may be too dry – in short, my friend, it is…to love another person thus is to see the face of…ah, but now I fall just short of the heretical, do I not?”)

The image is absurd, Grantaire thinks. Here kneels a god in front of a toad, doing a service so beneath him it should be blasphemous to even consider. Here hands, beautiful, delicate hands and soft lips wring from a vessel of miniscule worth something that is sure to tarnish them for all eternity. It is the opposite of apotheosis, it is impossible.

Not much of Enjolras’ ministrations are needed for Grantaire to come to the quick of it. He thinks to warn Enjolras, who withdraws only to pluck Grantaire’s handkerchief from his pocket to catch the mess before it is made.

Enjolras remains on his knees a little longer, breathing harshly. Grantaire cannot fathom what possesses him to bring a hand to Enjolras’ cheek, but he regrets it when blue eyes fall upon him and shake him to his very core. Rosy lips are parted by unsteady breaths and Grantaire cannot look away.

“Might I-” Grantaire’s voice has left him, his sense has left him, he is reduced to incoherence, but he carries on: “Might I offer you a service in return?”

For a sliver of a second, he believes Enjolras might say yes. Grantaire is no stranger to desire. Though he admits, in the privacy of his mind, that he is prone to exaggeration when it comes to recounting his adventures to friends, there is no doubting the fact that such stories are at least based in fact. He believes he recognizes what those eyes long for. But too soon Enjolras’ expression closes off. The god sets to rise once more, accepting the hastily offered aid of Grantaire’s hand before declining the previous offer of reciprocation.

(A trick of the light, then, a mere illusion was what he just saw and mistakenly called desire. It is far likelier that Grantaire might have imagined it entirely. They are not lovers, though they have been intimate now. A service – that is all it was. That is all Enjolras thought of.)

“There is no need. Think nothing of this, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, seriously. “I shall expect to find you less distracted when next we meet.”

By the time Grantaire has stumbled across cobblestones and muck to his lodgings, he has quite convinced himself that he imagined the entirety of tonight.

+

The cold tears into Paris like a long, iron blade and makes apparent that suffering prevails, even in the light of hope. Children on the street huddle together, many of them without parents by nature or by abandonment, starving for warmth or nourishment or even some comfort. Grantaire searches fruitlessly for one particular urchin.

He posts a letter he has spent too long composing, ignoring guilt and shame alike as he hopes it will reach the bereaved parents. The weather does seem a promising factor in possible miscarriages. Grantaire knows not what he would do then.

Perhaps some would say he should attempt another letter. Some months ago Grantaire might have claimed anything past sending the letter off to be out of his hands, no responsibility of his. Now, it would be a comfort to think oneself so free of agency. He can wallow as he has no longer. Now, he thinks he would write again and again, not out of conviction but to alleviate a selfish guilt that presses down on his chest. There is will now where there was none before, to do what is right for once, to no longer be a mere spectator, if only in such a small matter.

(There is no satisfaction in being right, when one had never _wanted_ to be right about such horrid things.)

It is true that while there now exists a parliament, it did not come free of charge. Many things that Enjolras predicted, saw as essential to establishing a foot in the door of freedom whereas Grantaire shivered at the thought, were realized. Violence, bloodshed, death, no expense was spared by those that sought to quell their little uprising. Some were lost, never to be recovered. He thinks of his friend Éponine, though she will scarcely be mourned by her father. By her mother, perhaps she will be, should she ever find out what happened to her eldest daughter. He has not seen little Gavroche since they dismantled the barricade, though he would be glad to offer himself as kin to the boy. It is, he supposes, the least he may do.

There is little he can do for Bahorel’s parents, and the letter of condolences he sent them is pitiful at best. He is no wordsmith, far from it. When he speaks, his words become tangled in one another and coherence is merely an unexpected bonus, if it should appear. Grantaire cannot sort his thoughts through as he rambles, they spill from him and he lacks the discipline to rein himself in.

But this, he finds, Enjolras has neglected to do. A dozen people were lost on their barricade alone, and no one has had the time to thank them for their sacrifice, to explain to those left behind why they chose to die for their country. (In Éponine’s case, he does not think it was the thought of a free France that moved her to block the musket ball intended for the Pontmercy boy.)

The other barricades lost more, though Grantaire did not know them. He supposes Bahorel might have. There is a young leader, a Monsieur Jeanne, that has eulogized the men and women who perished by his side.

Grantaire does not know why the King had at last been willing to negotiate, but he supposes it must have been a prudent thing to do. If he had been a king in his own right, negotiating and thus stomping out further flames would have been quite appealing.

Greedy men, he finds, have a way of maneuvering the most for themselves at all possible times. And all men, Grantaire finds, are greedy. Most men, that is – he cannot count Enjolras amongst them. Certainly he is more than that, grander. Enjolras appears selfish for the sake of achieving unselfish goals.

The King has, though Grantaire is certain he does not know it, muzzled Enjolras, for the time being. For Enjolras’ fury is most infectious to those that are most wretched – Grantaire counts himself among them though he is careful to cure potential infections with copious spirits and opioids if a flicker of hope should ever catch him – and now that the people have been given an inch they no longer demand a mile all for themselves. Grantaire understands. Apollo, god that he is, does not.

The god sets to writing speeches, the god whispers in ears to convince them to fight for more.

And so, quietly, the toad takes this task of honoring the fallen upon himself. It is a meager one by comparison, but meager suits him well enough.

(If he does not, he shall forever be tormented by the image of Bahorel grinning, alive and wild, seconds before he was struck down. They hadn’t been able to get to his body to close his eyes until the ceasefire was negotiated, and by then his body had seized and it had been nigh impossible.)

+

He arrives late for the next meeting. While there is no constitution yet in place, demands to be free to hold councils and meetings have been heard and granted. They are less clandestine now that they may do this at their leisure, though frequently Combeferre tempers Enjolras well enough when they pick up strays that extend past his closest compatriots. Tonight is not such a night. Restraint is not a habit well practiced by Enjolras, and why should a god seek temperance?

For a good three hours he had pondered whether he should excuse himself – permanently, perhaps – from what remains of their group. It has crossed his mind with alarming intensity. While his friends are a rare source of joy to him, it aches terribly to find their ranks decimated.

(Jehan, after he had stared down all too many barrels and shouted himself hoarse, has been taken out of the country by his parents, who still fear for their only child. Last Grantaire received a letter, their young friend had settled well in Sicily. Bahorel has settled in a different manner altogether.)

But like the moth to the flame, he returns, unable to resist the pull. (A planet in orbit, a moth to a flame, in the end it is all the same, is it not?)

Enjolras is conversing with a stern man Grantaire has not seen around these parts before, nodding seriously and looking quite intrigued.

“Monsieur Jeanne,” Courfeyrac explains as he takes a hearty sip of his cup. Grantaire had not needed to ask the man. Courfeyrac’s astute eyes had merely needed to follow his own gaze. There are scars on his forehead and temples, where the man lets locks curl over for coverage now. Before he was so marred, Courfeyrac had preferred a clean, less romantic cut. Grantaire will be sure to write Prouvaire of it, he thinks that tidbit is sure to amuse the poet, and they do so have need of amusement in these times. “He has come tonight with Feuilly; they have spent time talking after assemblies these past two weeks and found common ground. I think Enjolras means to radicalize him.”

“Is this _not_ the Monsieur that commanded a barricade all of his own?”

“Certainly,” Courfeyrac agrees, glint in his eyes, “Though none are quite radical as we, do you not agree?”

He can only offer Courfeyrac a frown in return. Grantaire takes the seat next to Joly and inquires after his leg.

“Troubling,” Joly sighs, patting his thigh fondly, as though he were talking about a wayward child one cannot help but love. “I have tried quite a few ointments in recent days, and my Muse was sweet enough to think to purchase herbal wraps, though none have seemed to induce a positive effect past temporary relief. I am of a mind to ask dear Combeferre if he might offer an alternative.”

Grantaire does not think to drink until Joly has poured him a tankard from the bottles already on the table. Obviously he had expected Grantaire’s presence tonight. It is only once Grantaire has nearly drained the whole of it that Joly addresses him again.

“You have been quiet, of late,” Joly ventures, but cuts short in favor of greeting the eagle that has just perched at their table.

“Preposterous that it should be so cold so early in the winter,” Bossuet chastises, “I swear I nearly took a fall thrice on my way here.”

“Small miracle that you did not, and we must remember to be grateful for that, must we not?” Joly smiles and offers Bossuet a cup of wine as well. “Will you support my inquisition as to why our Capital R has been so doggedly quiet in recent weeks?”

“Ah, he does not ramble so, that is quite right,” Bossuet agrees, nodding along. Though they have regained some of their easy rapport, they are impossibly changed by the barricade. Joly and Bossuet laugh, but their laughter is harsher, colder, just a little. Laughter that has seen death is never quite the same.

“Perhaps I have simply come to favor keeping quiet,” Grantaire argues half-heartedly. They are not wrong, that is true. He has been keeping quiet, because he fears that drawing Enjolras’ attention now might undo him. If conversations overheard are enough for the man to sully himself in the effort of clearing Grantaire’s mind, he shudders to think what might happen if Enjolras should find out he had only managed to confuse Grantaire all the more.

(“Grantaire,” Enjolras had said when next they had run into one another, “I trust your focus has improved?”

Grantaire had realized then, with despair, that what had transpired was not a consequence of the liquor, but painfully real. He had managed a tight nod, nothing more.)

(He knows the brief minutes spent together were all he should expect. Only a fool would believe Enjolras’ charity to extend beyond that singular occurrence; a wonderful man, yes, but not one of endless patience. And so he does not seek Enjolras out again, and takes to staring at his lips only when he is certain he will not be caught at it. _Oh_ , but those lips.

Grantaire had predicted it, had he not? That the after-effects of such a short spell might prove the deadliest? Well then, he has been prepared to face death before. Let him perish, he thinks, but not before he has made some things right, at least. There is a debt yet to be paid.

How could Grantaire be expected to banish Enjolras’ lips from his mind? Why should he want to erase a picture of such debauched perfection?

The answer, as it often is, is that if he does not put it from his mind it will do more to drive him mad than the absinthe ever could. But how those lips had looked, wrapped around him…

How it had felt to be the singular thing to hold Apollo’s attention, even for only the embarrassingly short duration of the service…)

“I do not believe it for a second,” Joly laughs, “But very well, keep your secrets if you must. We shall have the whole of it out of you eventually.”

+

“Grantaire,” Enjolras approaches him after most everyone in the room has left, “May I sit?”

“Without doubt,” Grantaire manages before promptly draining a cup. He has never been quite as deep in his cups as he used to be since the barricades, when he near slept through a friend’s final moments. He dearly wishes he could, but there is a fear within Grantaire that he might sleep through much worse if he drank as much as he wished to.

(Is it pathetic, to profess no belief and still hope that a death might be worth something?)

“How…” Enjolras looks uncertain, stops, pours himself a cup from Grantaire’s bottle, drinks, then begins anew. “How have you been, Grantaire?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you well? Distraction no longer holds you in her grasp?”

Enjolras must know what he does to Grantaire with such words. How is he to debate while imagining his opponent’s mouth otherwise occupied? It will not do.

“I see you get on with Monsieur Jeanne,” Grantaire derails the conversation, though he is fairly certain Enjolras reads him well enough to see through the pretenses. “Have you ambitions to instigate another wall of chairs and haphazard furniture?”

The man is thoughtful before he answers. “I should like to forego it, if it is possible. Violence is not a preference if it may be more easily avoided.”

That is a lie, Grantaire thinks. Too often Grantaire has heard Enjolras admire the heroes of the Great Revolution for him to discount such words as anything but a shabby try at diplomacy.

“So you have learned nothing, is what you truly mean, and would readily throw young lives into their premature graves once more, if the whim so took you,” Grantaire sighs, and empties another cup before he moves to get up.

“I mourn them, Grantaire, do not think me so heartless that I would not,” he says, his slender, elegant fingers encircling Grantaire’s wrist with strength Grantaire easily respects.

“Ah yes, Monsieur, you do a fine job of honoring the dead. You disrupt the funeral of the only General you have ever respected, once you learned how the Hero of Two Worlds disgraced himself at the Champ du Mars, to further your own relentless ambitions, noble though your causes may be, and now you have not even thought to drink to a man you called close friend while he lived.”

“There are things to be done that must take precedence, Grantaire,” Enjolras raises a surprised brow at such a turn of phrase, “If we are to ensure this constitution may bring the best possible results to France’s people, we must devote everything to its creation, if only because a republic will elude us some years more.”

“Occasionally you have asked me why I call you by the name of gods, Enjolras, and here you have your answer. It is because with words such as that, any humanity in your heart seems altogether improbable.”

Enjolras releases his wrist, and Grantaire makes to excuse himself. He has heard quite enough for one night.

“Wait,” Enjolras cries out. “Please, Grantaire, will you not sit with me awhile longer?”

“I should not like to take away time you might better devote to your beloved Patria’s constitution.”

Grantaire does not turn around once Enjolras as fallen quiet. He despairs of what he may see on that angelic face.

+

Samirah has kind eyes and Grantaire has always considered that a small miracle to witness in a girl that begun working the streets during her thirteenth year on this earth. She must be well past her twentieth now, but Grantaire knows better than to ask a Grisette to reveal her age. It would be detrimental in a job where youth is a valuable currency.

“I have not seen the boy in months,” she sighs, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “And he used to come by like clockwork, every fortnight, to chat and bring me pastries he’d nicked from way over where the wealthy gents supp. Real dependable, better than most men, I reckon.”

“So he was,” Grantaire agrees, pleasantly, “The very best of us, a knight of old honor among scoundrels. May I ask you to refer him to me if he does turn up?”

“For a price, yeah,” Samirah’s lips – pink and quite lushly contrasting against her cold-bitten yet perpetually bronzed skin – turn up on one side. Grantaire offers her a few coins from his coat.

“That’ll get you a lot more than information, sweetheart,” she says, demeanor shifting slightly.

“Ah,” Grantaire chuckles, tugging on one of Samirah’s exquisite dark curls. “Perhaps-”

“No, no, you are right, that is Grantaire.” They are interrupted by what he identifies to be Combeferre’s cool, pleasant voice. The man, easily identifiable by his height and the skin tone he shares with Samirah, is walking with Courfeyrac and Enjolras.

“Good day, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac grins at him when they have come closer. “And what might you be doing here?”

“Finishing up, are we not?” He turns to Samirah, who is already eyeing the three men now in front of her. Samirah ponders the coins for a while longer, then leans in to press a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek. “I’ll see what I can do. We are agreed.”

“Very well,” Grantaire says before he makes his excuses so that he must not face Enjolras longer.

It is an odd paradox that he longs for the man to acknowledge him and yet cannot stand to hold his attention this way. The scrutiny, it tears a man down. Stronger men than Grantaire have crumbled in the face of the ocean his eyes hold.

+

“Grantaire?”

“Enjolras.”

“I confess myself surprised to hear you address me thus unprompted,” Enjolras says, looking pleased.

“What may I do for you?” Grantaire sighs, already filling his cup anew, only for Enjolras to snatch it from him. That is a new thing, to see Enjolras so indulgent.

“It is not ‘what you may do for me’ that occupies my mind, to speak truthfully.”

“May you also speak plainly then? I am not so deep within my cups to be incapable of comprehension, but I do not require the mystery you have suddenly decided to cloak your words with.”

“Were you not satisfied with the alleviation of distraction I sought to provide, that you sought out another?”

“I beg your pardon?” Grantaire stares at Enjolras, who in turn stares at him. Neither man moves to break the hold. “Ah, perchance…Enjolras, this might be unfamiliar to you, who recognizes no baser urges within his soul, but such attempts do require routine repetition if they are to keep distractions out. The whole matter is not resolved with a single turn.”

No matter that Grantaire had not even bedded Samirah.

“I am aware, Grantaire,” Enjolras near growls. “If…if you had need of it anew, why not approach me for help? Was I so horrid? I know myself to be unpracticed and as of yet mostly untried but I do not shy away from improvement of any kind-”

“No, no, you were magnificent, truly, more charitable than I deserved. I would not ask what you would not freely give, would not demand what you saw as a duty to a fellow citizen. Enjolras, you bleed yourself dry for your causes and I did not think it my prerogative to add yet another burden,” Grantaire stammers, at a loss as to how Enjolras has managed to convince himself that he could have been anything less than perfection.

“It was no burden,” says Enjolras. “I enjoyed sharing in your pleasure.”

Gibelotte is merciful and throws them out then, and Grantaire bids his Apollo farewell in haste before he may get it into his head to bring forth such an offer again. An offer, made not as a lover but out of duty, over inclination, would undo Grantaire in the worst way possible. To have some of Enjolras and yet so little – the pain of that is too potent to nourish further still.

+

Gavroche crosses his paths when Grantaire has gone to buy his food for the week, appearing at his side with a: “Heard you was looking for me? Alright then, ‘ere I am.”

Éponine, sweet Éponine, when she still lived, had complained ever so often that the little boy would outright refuse any charity when it was offered as such, while extending too much of himself for others. She had also disliked when Grantaire pointed out that she was much the same, and that only through matronly nagging had he ever persuaded her to accept an old coat of his for winter.

Now, Grantaire is certain, Gavroche might even more firmly hold to his principles.

“I require a favor from you,” Grantaire says, “You see, I need information, someone to listen in on what those fancy posh folks are saying about the new constitution and whatnot.”

Gavroche crosses his arms. “What’d’ya need that sorts of information for, R?”

“Is that your place to ask?”

“Not my place, no, but prerogative, yeah.”

“That’s a fancy word you have learned.”

“Isn’t it just?”

“You see, the trouble is just, I have lost most of my money for the month in a game of dominoes. I thought I might pay you with some of my food and a roof over your head if you want it.”

Gavroche narrows his eyes at him. At this moment he is quite certain the boy has seen through his entire spiel. Gavroche is perceptive, and Grantaire is quite too tired to attempt a better deception.

“They did run me and the boys out of my elephant now that winter’s brought more of them old rats in and they’ve gone to munch on it, so I’ve not found a home of equally high standards,” Gavroche admits, scratching thoughtfully where older men might have a beard, “If I find something of use I’ll pop by.”

Then Gavroche weasels into the crowd and Grantaire wonders if he shall ever see the kid again.

It is gone nine in the evening when there is a knock on his door. Gavroche enters, shivering but valiantly attempting to disguise it. The kid is in rags, evidently, and skinnier than Grantaire remembers. It is not right that a child should look thus. Nothing about the way this world works is alright, and Grantaire is so tired of being confronted with its wretchedness wherever he turns.

“What have you got for me?” Grantaire asks.

“What’ave you got for _me_?” Gavroche counters, sauntering in and having a look about.

“Oh,” Grantaire says, “For the right information I might even be inclined to part with some of the ham my sister sent with her last letters. There is bread too.”

“And wine?”

“Ah, I am afraid I do not stock that. Only a certain green fairy, and for a whiff of that you would have to reliably read my palms for me,” Grantaire tells him, setting the food out on his table. Altogether his lodgings are a small thing, but they are quite enough for a man and a child to be comfortable.

“I might have a try at mastering that, and then you’d be in a right snit about what to do,” Gavroche claims as he reaches for the bread. He speaks as he chews: “Right then. There’s folks that says that the tyrant was right to back down, ‘cause it means he gets to stay on top.”

“Do they say that?” Grantaire wonders, “What say you to that, Gavroche?”

“’s what the old tyrant did before they lobbed ‘is head off too, innit?”

Gavroche chews a bit more, Grantaire pushes some more bread towards him and claims he is much too full to share it.

“That means it’s just a matter of time before he’s headed for the block then, if you ask me. People aren’t like to be content for long if you only throw scraps after they’ve asked for a whole meal.”

After dinner, Gavroche stands and pats himself down. His clothes really are nothing but rags. “Now then, that information wasn’t worth a full night’s rest, but I will lie down for a right quick turn of dozing.”

The next morning Gavroche has disappeared again.

+

“An update, for those who must hear it, on the constitutional assemblies’ progress,” cries a man on top of a carriage. Too often Grantaire has seen acquaintances and friends mounted thus to still be surprised by such a sight. In this city you are bound to find someone angry or righteous, speaking publicly, any given day. It feels like a part of the city, Grantaire can scarcely recall ever finding the streets quiet. Even the night they passed on the barricade had been filled with sounds. Young men singing songs of friendship, reminiscing during what they believed to be their last hours.

This man is young as well, likely not yet eighteen, and passionate as he waves a bit of paper around until enough of an interested crowd has gathered. It is cold, Grantaire reasons, and the poor of Paris know that warmth shared is warmth gained.

“On the question of suffrage, the assembly remains undecided…”

Occasionally the speaker is jeered at, Grantaire is certain one woman attempts to hit him with an apple, and not with the intent of providing nourishment. Remarkably, the boy recovers and clears his throat, only mildly perturbed. Grantaire has seen worse public speakers. He has also seen better, but that is neither here nor there.

“On the question of _abdication,_ which was brought forward today-”

At this a murmur goes through the crowd. Grantaire feels a collective intake of breath as the answer is anticipated.

“The delegate to propose such a motion has been found to be in possession of various sinister plans and literature, and has been arrested…”

The crowd has lost their patience, and some, Grantaire notes, have lost their interest. There had been that short glimmer of hope again, he’d have to have been blind to have to miss that, but it had gone out just as expected. Another poor, foolish bastard arrested over stupid causes. It is vexing, that so many think so little of throwing their lives away over nothing.

He spots Combeferre not far off, looking similarly disillusioned, and they exchange nods. Grantaire thinks that will be it, but Combeferre comes over to talk to him.

The man does not ask him what he makes of the announcements, for Combeferre surely knows. “It was not Feuilly that brought the matter up, Enjolras cautioned against such a proposition,” he says instead. Grantaire will not confess that he had wondered.

He does not receive comfort from such words. “You and I know well that he said so merely because he does not believe the time to be right. But he will, upon a day, and then once more we will take to the barricades for senseless slaughter.”

“So we may,” Combeferre agrees pleasantly enough, though he looks hardly pleased, “But will _you_?”

“Did I not build your damned barricade with you?”

“You drank more than you helped, but in the end you were present, I concede.”

“Combeferre,” Grantaire says, feeling wretched even as he makes a confession the man is likely already aware of: “You know well that when they go off to die again I will be there. There is no sense in living past something they do not.”

Combeferre is kind enough to leave that alone, for the man is not prone to mentioning what may very well go unsaid, that Grantaire means a single person when he speaks of ‘they’. A tug on Grantaire’s sleeve alerts him to Gavroche’s presence, and he leans down to receive news.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, R. I’ll weasel information out of them folks and then I’ll bring it to you.”

Combeferre nods his hello to Gavroche, who narrows his eyes and then runs off.

The little urchin does not show up every night, but regularly enough at first until he visits Grantaire so often that he considers the boy well moved in. It lifts a little weight off of his chest.

(It is during one such night, close to Christmas, that Gavroche recounts something about his sister. “She was lovely, wasn’t she? Tough as leather, that girl,” Grantaire sighs, somewhat wistfully, as he offers Gavroche milk. The boy is staring at his lap, where a half-eaten bread roll and some cheese are still left uneaten. A soft sound of a drop hitting the porcelain plate makes Grantaire aware of what the boy is trying to hide.

“There is no shame in missing her, Gavroche.”

It seems his words open a dam of some sort, because Gavroche holds onto him and cries himself to sleep. Grantaire’s eyes and muscles ache in the morning when he wakes still holding the child.)

+

The parcel arrives unexpectedly to drive Grantaire to ruin. It was a pitiful attempt at offering comfort, and now Bahorel’s parents have, in their kindness, broken him.

“ _We should have liked to give these to our son this Christmas, though we shall be glad to know them well received by one that loved him as we did…_ What’d’ya have in the box, R? Can I have a right quick look about it?” Gavroche, whose letters have been steadily improving, asks.

“Do as you would, but if a drop of the liquor is missing when I return I shall be very disappointed,” Grantaire manages, before he puts on a coat. He must drink.

Enjolras finds him many cups later, once Joly and Bossuet and Feuilly have all attempted to dissuade him before giving up their own drink and retiring for the night. Still, Grantaire drinks. Wretched, he thinks, the whole of it. How dare these parents be bereaved of their troublesome, brash, foolish son?

“Grantaire,” Enjolras frowns, “I believe you have had enough this night. You may well go sleep it off.”

Grantaire hardly hears him. In truth he feels very little but the ache of the liquor in his throat. It is a deserved pain and yet this way of flagellation scarcely betters his thoughts.

“Grantaire.” Now Enjolras’ voice is sharper, it cuts deeper through the storm around him. “You must stop this. I need you at your best-”

“ _No,_ you have had your Revolution, and we have lost too many, Apollo...I can give no more,” Grantaire spits out clumsily, surely spilling something onto himself in the process, “...If I wish to drink myself into stupor, Apollo, so let me, what consequence is it to you if I choke myself thus? What does it matter if I perish thus, tell me? You can give no answer because in truth it hardly matters if I quit this earth...better men have left it and gone on to fade into nothingness...I should...I should surely join them and your cause would rejoice to be rid of its famed detractor... ”

His vision is blurry, and he cannot keep Enjolras in his focus, but he believes the man to still be looking at him. Such words are not formed easily on drink-addled tongues, but Grantaire has practice in such matters.

“Nothing has changed...so many have died and _nothing has changed_... and it will not change. Oh, woe is me... an unwilling, horrid Cassandra and you set on ignoring me and such prophecies.”

“Grantaire…”

“Leave me be, Enjolras,” Grantaire clumsily swats at him. He misses entirely. “Why must you wish to die so terribly? Why? Have not enough gone already? Must you seek to join them when you are needed well and alive here?”

There is wetness on his face, not caused by spilled drink, and Grantaire does not quite feel himself at all today. And then, to break past the storm, arms encircle him, give him reason to weather the maelstrom. Enjolras, holding him? Surely not. But like a man blinded, Grantaire reaches out and finds the truth of it quite literally at hand. He clutches Enjolras, hides his face in the man’s neck, and weeps.

In the morning Grantaire awakes in his bed with no memory past their embrace.

+

Grantaire does not know what to think when Enjolras joins Bossuet and Joly at their table, only knows that Enjolras is conversing with them as he enters.

“What is this?” Grantaire wonders, taking his own seat, “Are we not to drink and be merry tonight?”

“Ah,” Joly says, nervously fiddling with his cane, “The Eagle and myself have a prior engagement that we had not anticipated before now…”

“A prior engagement that you had not anticipated? The senselessness of such a thing! Joly, dear boy, are you perhaps ill?”

“It is not myself that is ill, for once, though I am certain that I have not healed from my flu entirely, or that I have perhaps caught a new one, a new kind, most likely…”

“It is Musichetta that requires us tonight, and a doctor to boot. Dear Combeferre is fetching him, and we two are saying our goodbyes.”

“Is the girl alright?”

“Perhaps she will be, once we decide between us which one of us shall make an honest woman of her now that she is in a family way.”

“Not truly?”

“Quite,” Joly says, nodding seriously.

“And you are not overjoyed? You, whom I have always known to long for fatherhood-”

“Oh, yes, I do think I should like a child. It is she that is unhappy with her lot. You see, Musichetta had quite been determined to never be a mother at all.”

“Then perhaps she should not have taken up with two men of large, offspring-plagued families,” Enjolras presses out, his hands tight around the glass. Grantaire notes displeasure on his face.

“Ah, cruel man you are, that you would deny a woman the pleasures of passion and intimacy when they have little else to take pleasure in within this hateful country.”

“And where might they have better pleasures? Do you suppose the treatment of women is better elsewhere?”

“With the amazons of old, I imagine they might have pleasures beyond compare,” Grantaire retorts distractedly, before returning his attention to Joly and Bossuet. “Does she intend to…?”

“If she did, I do not think we could stop her,” Bossuet sighs, “It would be a shame, but alas it would be the woman’s choice, would it not? No, as things stand this moment, she is inclined to indulge our wishes, mercifully. So we had best not be late, lest she grow cross with us.”

Grantaire is left in wonder. A child, he thinks, born in such wretched times to two of his dearest friends. He hopes it may be a comfort for all three of the parents. He hopes it may offer incentive for them to take care with their own lives. It is a selfish thought perhaps, but Grantaire has never claimed altruism as his own quality.

“Grantaire, I must ask you-”

“Please, sweet angel, let us not speak of politics tonight,” Grantaire pleads softly, “There is a soft spot of happiness in my heart tonight where earlier there was nothing but bitterness. Pray do not extinguish it so quickly. It is a wonderful thing, is it not? How companionship and cause for joy may be found occasionally despite the darkness that marks our lives? Imagine a babe in Joly’s arms, can you not see it well? Oh it would be a handsome child, and Joly would fuss unbearably over its health, whereas dear Bossuet would likely fall over himself trying to show parental affection...it is...ah, it brings me delight, and I will not apologize for it.”

Enjolras smiles at him, and it is a softer thing than Grantaire knows from him.

“Very well then, we may leave the politics be for tonight,” Enjolras sighs indulgently, “Though I shall not pretend to understand why you are happy when their poor mistress, it seems, is not.”

“Poor? She is very much rich in being loved by two such wonderful men, do you not think so?”

“I hold that those who does not wish to fall pregnant should not engage.”

“Of course,” Grantaire sighs, “You think her foolish, yes? To risk such a thing for pleasures you have no interest in?”

Enjolras shakes his head, somewhat regretfully. “I have interest, Grantaire. It is not from a lack of desire that I am chaste.”

Grantaire does not trust himself to refrain from further questioning. Instead, he drinks.

+

Enjolras witnesses Gavroche address himself to Grantaire, one early January evening. Grantaire feels warm when he considers the fact that the boy now offers information when he has plans to roam the streets, to ease Grantaire’s worries. It is well, for him and the boy, to have such a connection, a strange sort of safety net, a different type of family made of two lonely people.

“What business does Gavroche have with you, Grantaire?” Enjolras wonders, once the boy has made off.

“Fairly little,” Grantaire dismisses, before making an excuse to go relieve himself outside.

“The boy is lodging with Grantaire, had you not heard?” Courfeyrac explains to Enjolras in tones that aren’t low enough to avoid detection. “His last-of-kin died on our barricade.”

“The…with Pontmercy?”

“Yes, Éponine was his sister, I believe,” Courfeyrac says. “Poor girl.”

Grantaire can hear no more by virtue of distance, though he knows the subject has not been dropped.

+

Later, once Enjolras has gotten a drink out of Grantaire, he says: “You are a good man, Grantaire.”

It is absurd, Grantaire thinks. Such words contradict the axioms on which their world is built.

“A good man incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living and of dying,” Grantaire mocks, raising a toast, “Yes, I quite know your opinion of me, Apollo. Do not pretend to hold me in higher esteem now that you have found out I would not turn a child out into the bitter cold. If you had thought me such a demon before, truly I cannot fathom why you would have tolerated me near you.”

“I much prefer it when you do not force distance between us with that ridiculous name.”

“Very well then, Enjolras, do not pretend that this makes me a better man in some respect, for I remain as wretched and impossible as ever,” Grantaire stands up quite abruptly.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras speaks softly, looking quite stricken. “I am very sorry I was so wrong about you before.”

“You were never wrong. You had me quite right.”

“I must disagree. You are…you are quite singular to me. I have never thought you terrible, only I could not understand a man such as you.”

“Because you do not understand why a man would be so pathetic?”

“Now it is the opposite, to tell you the truth. I begin to understand you more than I ever imagined myself capable of… Sometimes I think you may even be right when you tell me it is no use to fight for something so far out of our reach.”

“You? No, Enjolras, you are incapable of losing that will, I know it in my heart.”

“You will see,” Enjolras sighs, and rubs his temple, fingers heavy. In that moment he looks exhausted beyond reason, as though a single gust of wind might send him crumbling into dust.

Grantaire, because he knows not what else to do when he sees his god tumble to the earth, now merely a man scorched instead of something divine, falls onto his knees in front of Enjolras, and clasps his hand to his face, pressing close. It is a fine show of supplication. He does not dare force more than that, not once the man gasps so sharply at his impetuosity.

“Please, Enjolras, do not say these things. I despair at you more than I do not, but you cannot – no, please, it is impossible that you should lose the light inside of you. It is within your very core to believe so wholeheartedly in man’s capability for goodness.”

“And earlier I had suspected you might be delighted to hear me doubt-”

“No, never,” Grantaire insists, “Please, you must know I wish so ardently that I could share your beliefs, that my thoughts might be worthy, that I might…”

“It is not words nor thoughts that define a man, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and in doing so turns his hand so that his palm rests upon Grantaire’s cheek. “It is his actions that reveal his true nature. Your thoughts are torn through, darkened with your fears, but your actions claim victory over them in the end. I have seen it in you, do not attempt now to paint yourself a coward once more.”

“Enjolras…” Grantaire breathes, because he is too in awe to say much else.

“Tell me about Bahorel, if you would. You castigated me once for not honoring his memory, and…you were right that I did not do so properly. I only thought to treasure what his sacrifice made possible, not... I should like to remember him tonight.”

Grantaire remains, resting at Enjolras feet, and he talks. He reveals his friendship with Bahorel, that he was Grantaire’s first friend in Paris and in the ring. Enjolras asks him if they were lovers.

“Bahorel had a-”

“A mistress, yes, so he said often enough. Let us not pretend there are not men who would call each other so.”

“I met her but once, he was fiercely protective of her, so I hardly caught her name. Mariselle, I think it was, or it might not have been. In any case I remember her smile, and the charming way her laugh never seemed to cease as she spoke.”

“I should like that,” Enjolras reveals.

“What, to laugh?” Grantaire wonders. “You, who may so seldom be moved to show a barest hint of a smile?”

“A companion,” Enjolras corrects, staring off into the dying fire that indicates someone will be up here to turn them out soon. “I have…since I arrived in Paris I knew only the desire to fight, I knew nothing else and so engaged in nothing else. You know this well, Grantaire, you have critiqued me for my heartlessness, rightfully so. And now…now I am tired, and should like to have somebody by my side in this life. I should like to know what else a man might fight for.”

“A wife, then, that is what you seek,” Grantaire speaks.

“I have never much cared for women, nor considered them.”

“Do you not fight for an end to their subjugation?”

It is a transparent attempt, clearly, but Grantaire is astounded not to see indignation on angelic features. Enjolras is smiling at him. “You know well what I mean, Grantaire, do not pretend. I may fight for them as I fight for everyone and still have no private interest in them.”

“Yes, you of little private interest, and why would you?” Grantaire sighs, and drinks deep.

+

“A minute of your time, Grantaire,” Enjolras has him by the arm with some pressure as everyone begins filing out of the back room of the Musain, and his voice is low. He does not make himself heard to others, and a shiver runs through Grantaire as for why that might be.

He does not look at him, but the grip Enjolras has on him loosens. Grantaire loiters, squanders away the rest of his bottle as he waits for Combeferre and Courfeyrac to bid Enjolras good night, along with gently made reminders to rest a while.

“I would ask something of you.”

“Anything,” Grantaire keeps himself firmly turned away.

“I would take you to bed, if you are to be had in such a way.” Enjolras stands near behind him, he feels Enjolras’ breath tickle his neck. It is warm, and there is not a hint of wine on him. The man is bold, but then Grantaire knew that well.

Now Grantaire cannot help but look at Enjolras, if only to determine that he has not made up the whole thing in his mind. It seems more plausible than Enjolras once more approaching him, despite the convincingly blunt manner that is in his inimitable nature.

“That should take longer than the minute you requested, if only due to preparations yet to be made.”

Enjolras’ face is made of stone, it must be. He nods and there is no emotion when adds: “I had not thought to have you in a way that required preparation, but you are right that perhaps we ought to take our time tonight. Several minutes then, perhaps longer, if you consent to accompany me back to my lodgings.”

+

It is an odd thing that Enjolras should have performed _irrumatio_ before he had been kissed, but it is plain to Grantaire that when Enjolras presses Grantaire against his door, he does so for the first time in his still young life.

“Does this please you?” Grantaire wonders, when Enjolras draws back to breathe.

“Very much,” Enjolras agrees, nodding fervently, “I take pleasure from touching you. And I should take more pleasure still in ravishing you upon my bed.”

“I only thought to show you,” Grantaire clears his throat, “What other ways one might kiss. It need not merely be lip pressed upon lip, sweet angel.”

“Ah, a subtle critique is thus revealed. Very well, Grantaire, show me what you prefer. I would learn you completely in such regard.”

The words, though issued as a challenge, cut Grantaire as a weapon would. In turn his heart bleeds out entirely for Enjolras. Does Enjolras mean to repeat tonight’s performance? What are they to perform? He hardly knows. Instead, he pulls Enjolras in close by the neck and kisses him deeply. Enjolras tastes sweet; there is a flavor of spice in his mouth that Grantaire hardly recognizes. It is with his tongue that he discovers the spice to be nutmeg. It seems that Enjolras does not mind being kissed in such a forward manner at all, for his knees buckle slightly and he must lean fully on Grantaire to remain steady.

“Do not smirk so, Grantaire. I would rather share kisses with you again,” Enjolras chastises soon enough.

Enjolras does not ask him to stay once he has kissed Grantaire, mouth now full of what one might consider revolutionary essence, if one were in the habit of making terrible jokes, but he does not tell him to leave either.

Once more Enjolras did not undress, but kissed Grantaire sweetly, then hotly, and guided him to release. Once more Enjolras stopped Grantaire’s hand as his fingers marched a questioning path towards his breeches.

“You say you do not remain chaste because you desire to be so, but you will not let me touch you… speak, oh muse, what is a man to think of that but that you do not lust for him?”

“It is not that, Grantaire,” Enjolras sighs. He turns onto his stomach, and glances at Grantaire from his pillow. “I desire this, I must ask you to trust me on that. But I cannot let you-”

“And I do trust you, so all is well,” Grantaire settles him. “I shall probe no further if it is unwelcome. Only tell me if I ever go too far in this regard.”

“I thank you,” Enjolras breathes a kiss onto Grantaire’s lips and then closes his eyes.

This means Grantaire stares up at the barely-lit ceiling, no clear idea how to navigate the path before him now that they have truly been intimate. The candles, though by no means used sparingly, do little to illuminate the room at large.

It takes several minutes of strained silence until Grantaire realizes that his Apollo has collapsed into slumber beside him. Courfeyrac and Combeferre will be glad to find him at rest, though he doubts they shall ever be made aware of what transpired this night. Grantaire is of no mind to divulge it, and he cannot imagine Enjolras would take pride in having his friends know him thus debased.

Though he supposes, despite their dalliance, Enjolras remains untouched. Pure save for his mouth, which had been known to spew unholy rhetoric already.

Grantaire half-heartedly puts his clothes back on and returns to his own rooms through the growing cold, where Gavroche sleeps fitfully on his chaise.

+

February is quickly replaced by March and updates on the progress of the assembly slow as the debates reach a bitter stalemate. Gavroche reports more frequent brawls, politically motivated too, as opinions begin to split the city.

“Feuilly says that some are pushing for re-elections,” Enjolras, beside him, relays. The man had shown up there half an hour before and asked Grantaire to accompany him for a walk. And now, along the public gardens they stroll. Earlier Enjolras had taken his arm and Grantaire had not discouraged him, though his heart had quite started a career in tumbling about his ribcage then.

“You suppose that if they do not Paris will stir once more?”

“I should prefer them to come to agreeable terms,” Enjolras evades.

“Ah, yes,” Grantaire rolls his eyes at the foolishly brave man on his arm. “And why not? It is easy to say you might prefer peaceful conclusions if you know well there will be none. Certainly it paints you in a more favorable light, to proclaim a desire for peaceful resolution, but I know it to be incompatible with your heart. Do not seek to fool me.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, “I will not pretend you speak falsely, but I also know that I have no desire to lose more friends if I may avoid it. Do you truly believe I should delight to have them give their lives? I have come to you today because, despite my reluctance to rise again, there is something I would ask you.” His voice, never truly jovial, but recently softer, hardens into sternness entirely.

Enjolras stops their walk, and turns to grasp Grantaire’s hand. “If it should come to violence,” he questions, “Where will you fall?”

“You cannot mean to ask me that,” Grantaire averts his eyes. “Truly, Enjolras, you know the answer to that already, and must now seek to mock me.”

“I know nothing of the sort, nor do I ask such a question lightly, and never to make a mockery of you.”

“You claim you do not know?”

“I do not,” Enjolras insists, earnestly.

“Wherever you go, Enjolras, I will follow, because I can do nothing else. And if it is your wish to throw your life away when you have already been spared, then you will find me right by your side.”

“Your life is not mine to risk,” Enjolras says softly, squeezing Grantaire’s hand. He cannot quite breathe, so tight does his chest feel.

“But it is, do you still not understand? I am in love with you, Enjolras, I have loved you since I heard you speak. My life, miserable and wretched and worthless though it may be, is _yours_.”

When Grantaire looks at Enjolras now, it is almost comical to see how surprised the man is.

“Surely you knew?”

“I did not. Your life, though it seems worth painfully little to you, matters a great deal to me, do you understand? I cherish you and your company and I would dearly like to keep you by my side.” Enjolras pauses, as though warring with himself, then continues: “Grantaire, we must return to your lodgings at once.”

Enjolras is already striding off, away, and Grantaire knows well that he has made quite a mess of it all. But then, once he has found Grantaire’s rooms free of Gavroche for the time being, Enjolras pulls Grantaire close to him and kisses him so intrepidly that Grantaire is quite certain he will swoon if the man ever thinks to let go.

“One word from you will silence me on this forever, but Enjolras…” Grantaire pants, as their foreheads rest together. There is barely room for breath between their lips. The National Guard might storm this room the next second and he would never know. “I would – I would like nothing more dearly than to do a service for you. I would do anything. My hands, my mouth, my…it is all for you, Enjolras, if you so desired.”

Another kiss steals his breath entirely.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispers, “I should like that well. I long for it and I ache for you. It is a complicated matter...”

“Very well, then, I will be glad from nothing but a kiss from your lips,” Grantaire accepts, though his heart is not light.

+

“This is becoming a pattern most unnerving,” Grantaire tells Enjolras when he once more finds himself staying behind after a meeting with but little words to sway him.

It has been several weeks since the last time that Enjolras had sought him out. Spring’s full arrival has meant that Gavroche’s visit have decreased once more, but at least now Grantaire is assured to know the boy will not be afraid to come to Grantaire when he must. And Enjolras, Enjolras has become too caught up in the storm of new, more wildly campaigned for elections to build the second national assembly for Grantaire to be of any importance to him.

As expected Grantaire has fallen back into the habit of staring, and by some divine punishment, in turn for the divine grace that preserved them last year, Enjolras caught him at it one time too many. Now he mainly takes to staring at his bottle as anger once more settles like fire in Enjolras’ heart. Parliament is a struggle that Enjolras cannot solve with revolution, nor one that he may directly participate in, on account of his youth. The general populace is content with its lot, now that spring has brought in some harvests and climates that do not kill as easily, even if Enjolras is not.

Grantaire begins to wonder if Enjolras shall ever be satisfied. Such is the crux of optimism, he imagines. The incessant ambition, that one ought to make new goals once the primary ones are attained.  

“I fear our dalliance does little to rid you of distractions,” Enjolras observes. “In fact you continue to be quite distracted while the discussion continues around you.”

“You need no reason to cut me loose, Apollo, merely a word shall suffice and I will trouble you with my presence no longer,” Grantaire, already in the process of turning away, is stopped by a pull from Enjolras’ hand on his arm. Enjolras is once more a picture of impropriety, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing creamy skin dusted by light blond hair. His cravat hangs limply across his throat leaving his white shirt to fall open a smidge and reveal a milky collarbone on his left side, unmarked and perfect.

“If you would but let me say what I mean to say.”

“You have never before shown trouble expressing precisely what you mean even should I interrupt you.”

“I confess this to you, Grantaire, because I would ask you to continue even if _your_ distraction does not wane.”

“And the reason for your decision?”

“My own productivity is increased after I take the time to know your lips and your lusts.”

“Shocking.”

“You ask what you can do for me, but when set to task you would mock and embarrass? Are we to relive the Barrière du Maine again and again?”

“We must not,” Grantaire interrupts the tirade. “You may have anything you wish of me, Enjolras, you well know that. So what would you have?”

“I…” Enjolras takes a deep breath, and then regards Grantaire quite curiously. “There is more to my reasoning than convenience, though I am sure you know it. When last we spoke it was of love and affection, and these sentiments are still true on my part. I desire to be had by you, though I must show you something first.”

“Now you are really making this quite ominous, are you not? By all means, let us to bed, and reveal what you would.”

+

It is quite like watching a wave break, Grantaire imagines. He has been to beaches where they tower twice the size of regular men, and as they crash they are unpredictable. Enjolras, as Grantaire follows him up the stairs, seems prone to break apart, the way his fingers fidget. It is a rare sight to see the man so nervous.

“You must swear to me, Grantaire, that you will not breathe a word of what I shall show you now to anyone.”

“I do so swear,” Grantaire nods, taking a seat on the bed.

“Very well,” Enjolras closes his eyes, and then Enjolras begins to undress. Not too many layers must come off before Grantaire realizes the crux of Enjolras’ hesitance. He had been wondering why, when Enjolras pressed against him, he alone had been hardened, if the man claimed to desire him.

“Your anatomy is what you wished me to see, I presume,” Grantaire assuages.

Enjolras rids himself of his shirt, then the bindings beneath it to stand, at last, bare before Grantaire. He is the handsomest creature on god’s green earth to Grantaire’s eyes.

“I am a man, make no mistake,” Enjolras says into the silence, for Grantaire had hitherto been quite robbed of his speech. .

“So you are, and based on that truth we have lived and slaked our lusts, have we not?” Grantaire agrees, “It is not what I expected, I will confess it freely, but I know my way around anatomy such as yours as well. This is…Enjolras this changes precious little about the physicality of our dalliance, if you are still willing to lie down with me.”

“Why must it change anything?” Enjolras crosses his arms, already in the process of pulling his shirt back over his head. Grantaire supposes the garment brings a measure of comfort, and he doesn't begrudge him that.

“I simply mean that a touch of caution is necessary, either by acquiring certain teas if you would…be had completely, or by simply not having you completely. I am quite positive you know that as well. You have never expressed a desire to bear children, I should think my taking care in this regard would suit you well.”

“It has never been a possibility, Grantaire. That is not quite the same. I had not thought my situation a common one..”

“Ah,” Grantaire nods, “Perhaps because you have never taken time to see what Paris has to offer beyond a potential arena in which to fight for liberty, for you would have been amazed to find quite a few gentlemen like you, I should wager.”

“You have known men like me?” Enjolras wonders, wide-eyed.

“In passing, barely, since I no longer frequent artistic establishments, you see?” Grantaire confirms, “Though I am somewhat acquainted with a young woman in a situation…well I suppose she might be considered your opposite, if you understand me? I might introduce you, if you should like that, I suppose it must be easier to speak of such things with those that might-”

Enjolras has cut his speech short with a passionate kiss. It has happened often now, and yet Grantaire shall never complain to once more be silenced thus. Those soft hands return onto his body to divest him of his clothing, and soon they fall onto the bed. Together.  

+

In the aftermath, once passions have cooled and Grantaire’s head has cleared, he goes to fetch Enjolras a fresh nightshirt from his closet. The room is filled with silence until Enjolras has finished changing, and then pats the sheets for Grantaire to join him.

“Was it...I hope you were well pleased,” Grantaire ventures.

Enjolras smiles at him, shyly. “Yes, I quite enjoyed it. There are...I have read of some other things we might do, objects that may be acquired, if you follow, wherein I might be made capable to take the position you held. I might like to try that, upon a day.”

Grantaire hums, and pulls Enjolras to him. “I believe that may very well be arranged, if it is what you desire.”

It is Enjolras who next disturbs their languid evening, by removing himself from the bed and moving towards his large, candle-wax-stain covered writing desk.

“Must you?”

Grantaire feels how pitifully small his own voice is, but he does not lament being unable to hide his disappointment. Enjolras considers him, and sighs. “I suppose it may wait a few hours yet.”

Once Enjolras is settled against his chest again, Grantaire speaks of his fears, more freely than he had dared before.

“You say that a new wave of anger must follow, if they are not to agree on a constitution even with a second assembly or parliament elected. I am afraid that you are right, Enjolras, and the thought paralyzes me…”

“But it must happen, Grantaire, do you not see?” Enjolras sounds weary on his own account, and he shifts to look upon Grantaire’s face. “Before the monarchy has crumbled, you know as well as I that the people will not be free.”

“Are you cross that I should pray it does not? Can you truly begrudge me wishing to see you safe and sane? I should hate to lose you after having only just attained you.”

“Lose me?” Enjolras smiles softly, “You speak like a man that cares a great deal for his belongings.”

“Ah, and you object to the phrasing?”

“In some manner.”

“And the sentiment?”

“Much less so.”

“Very well then, my dear, pity the fool who loves you truly, though he stumbles over the right expressions.”

Enjolras kisses him once more.

 

“It is quite alright, my fool, for I love you just as well.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- "At five in the morning, we will all be dead." is the name of Charles Jeanne's memoir, who I featured in this story briefly because I think we should talk about him more.  
> \- The Hero of Two Worlds mentioned is General Lafayette, who rose to fame during the American Revolution and then to infamy during the French one, when by his command 50 people were killed during the Champ du Mars Massacre. Lafayette spoke at Lamarque's funeral.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr.](http://www.annabrolena.tumblr.com/)


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